


Mind Over Matter

by epkitty



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: First Time, M/M, Promiscuity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-02
Updated: 2011-03-02
Packaged: 2017-10-16 01:18:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/166895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epkitty/pseuds/epkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Glorfindel is new to Imladris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mind Over Matter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lauand](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=lauand).



Glorfindel looked about the place as though he’d never seen anything like Imladris. His blue eyes were so wide, some people joked they were about to pop right out of his pretty blonde head.

Much to Erestor’s envy, his senior advisor -- Melpomaen -- had taken charge of their new acquisition without batting an eye.

Melpomaen had been kicking about Imladris as long as anyone could remember, Eregion before that, and somewhere else before that. Melpomaen was one of those rare people who walked the world with grace, took everything in his own stride, and never shook up the council. He was so perfect that many people were almost jealous of him, but because he was so good and friendly, they found themselves more inclined to desire Melpomaen’s approval and friendship.

Like any upstanding Elf, Melpomaen took Glorfindel under his wing, determined to make the warrior feel at home. Melpomaen was one of only a few who treated Glorfindel with simple respect rather than adoration, who expected nothing, and who never brought up the questionable state of Glorfindel’s soul.

All manner of rumors regarding rebirth, True Immortality, and something called ‘godhood’ were being bandied about in the halls, and Melpomaen wouldn’t stand for any of it. His only demands of Glorfindel were that the Elf take care of himself, stand up for himself, and treat others with respect. These were not difficult standards to rise to.

And because Melpomaen treated him so well, Glorfindel was more than determined to abide by those rules.

As it was, wherever Glorfindel had come from, whatever he had been through, it was making Glorfindel’s transition to life in Imladris a difficult one. Glorfindel was too sensitive to stimuli to be in bright, loud, or overcrowded areas for any length of time. There was a shyness inherent in his manner that made conversation frightening for him. But there was also a love for life and gritty determination that made him a sight to be seen on the training yard.

= = = = =

Nearly three months had passed since the day Glorfindel had turned up in the barn of a local rancher and he was only just acclimating to spending the majority of his day in the company of others.

He sat side by side with Melpomaen at meals, and they whispered quietly together.

Tonight, they were playing who’s who.

“That one.”

“Easy,” Glorfindel said with a grin. “Saelbeth.”

“And?” Melpomaen pushed.

“Saelbeth is a scribe and attendant.”

“To who?”

“Uh . . .” Glorfindel glanced about. “Oh, that one. The sour looking one with sad eyes.”

“Yes,” Melpomaen approved. “His name?”

Glorfindel shook his head. “I don’t remember.”

“Erestor.”

“Ah. I can’t remember his name,” Glorfindel complained, “Because I don’t know anything about him.”

“Counselor.”

“Oh, that’s right. Counselor Erestor.”

Melpomaen nodded. “I expect he’ll take on my position in a few years.”

Glorfindel looked shocked. “But, you’re Chief Counselor! Erestor can’t be ready for that!”

Melpomaen shrugged. “There’s war coming. I’m no good at war.” He pushed a piece of broccoli across his plate. “I’m good at timetables, and better at treaties. I can talk rings around the diplomats from Mirkwood. I can keep order in the Councils and I know every corner of Imladris.” He took a bite of potatoes. “Erestor,” he said. “Erestor’s different. He hates treaties. But can cook up calendars, agendas, and rotation schedules that everyone can understand in no time flat. He hates talking; he’s bad at it. And he’s offensive. But he’s strict when I can’t be, and he’s loud when he needs to be, and he doesn’t take guff from anyone, and he can hold a sword a hell of a lot better than I can. So let me tell you, when the troops are marching across the plains and mountains, you’re gonna be glad Erestor’s there to divvy out the supplies and line up the tents and kick the muleteers into order. He’s a mule himself.” Melpomaen chuckled into his wineglass, making an odd, short-lived echo of his laugh. “Chief Counselor Erestor. Oh yes. Besides, I need a break!”

Glorfindel mulled this over a good while. It was the most he’d heard about Erestor, and none of it was happy, but it sure matched those sad dark eyes.

He allowed a respectful amount of silence after that before he spoke again. Blue eyes sought a lissome figure across the dining hall. “What about that one? White hair, all smiles. You haven’t told me about that one.”

“Do I really have to,” Melpomaen grumbled.

Glorfindel watched him, that distant Elf. He was fluttering about amongst a group of warriors at one of the low tables. His white hair was completely loose, and it waved flatteringly about his heart-shaped face. Generous lips curled in a pretty smile that was not innocent as light green eyes flashed from one to another of the warriors. He sat in someone’s lap, and let them whisper in his ear. Another ran appreciative fingers through that strange, misty hair. A third let his hand rest further south than was commonly considered polite, and yet another snuck in a kiss beneath a snow-pale jaw line.

“Lindir.” Melpomaen grunted the name. “A minstrel. Though you’d never be able to tell, the way he spends most of his time.”

Glorfindel glanced sideways at his mentor. “You disapprove?”

Melpomaen shrugged and smiled down at his plate. “There’s no harm in it. Not usually.”

“Not usually? What do you mean?”

“Everyone here in Imladris, we know what Lindir is. But sometimes he takes up with the visitors. And it’s not fair. They wouldn’t know he just does it for kicks. I’ve seen a few broken hearts these past few decades.”

Melpomaen kept shaking his head, and Glorfindel knew there was something more to it. He finished his meal in silence and watched Lindir. He watched Lindir for a good long while, as he’d watched Lindir on other nights. And, as on other nights, he watched Lindir choose one of the soldiers for the night. “So, what?” Glorfindel said. “He’s the blemish on an otherwise perfect society?”

“Imladris is far from perfect; I know that.” Melpomaen watched Lindir leave with his companion before turning back to Glorfindel. “But why do you keep asking? Are you interested?”

“No.” Glorfindel stood and took up his tray. “It’s just that . . . he looks at you a lot.” And he left.

For the first time in many years, Melpomaen found himself stunned.

= = = = =

The next day, Glorfindel declined Melpomaen’s companionship, insisting that he intended to spend the majority of the day with the militia in the company of Captain Dinendal.

So, having nothing better to do in these days of sunshine, Melpomaen found himself left to his own devices and found that he did not like it one little bit. He insinuated himself in Elrond’s office to assist with what little paperwork there was to be had. This meant that it was accomplished twice as fast as usual, leaving Elrond and Melpomaen sitting across from one another in silence by lunchtime.

Elrond regarded his Chief Counselor with a practiced eye. “What’s wrong?”

Melpomaen shook his head, and steepled his fingers before him, a gesture Erestor had long picked up from him. “All the wind’s gone out of my sails, Elrond. It’s time to turn my duties over to one better suited.”

The Lord nodded. “A bit sooner than I expected. But the arrangements will be made. Erestor will be pleased, no doubt. Though he’ll hardly show it. And what will you be up to, Melpomaen, without an office to haunt?”

He shrugged. “The library suits me just fine. What with the future that’s waiting, there’ll be plenty of things for me to do there. Lists to be made. Letters to be written.”

Elrond nodded again. “All right.”

= = = = =

The gardens were pleasant. Melpomaen had spent hours here with Glorfindel and others, speaking of things both trivial and important, but it had been almost longer than he could remember since he’d sat alone among the flowering patches of green and rainbow.

It was just gone noon. Glorfindel would be in the dining hall with the rest of the soldiers and most of the House. The gardens -- including this one, walled about with lilacs and plotted in rows of gardenias -- were empty. Melpomaen was not near enough the House to hear the sounds of diners: clinking cutlery, cheerful voices, chair legs scraping on stone. All that could be heard was the ladies’ choir from the recital hall across the river. They were singing a lament from Nelfinavir’s Opera. It was eerie, even at midday.

“Haunting, isn’t it?” Such a voice.

Melpomaen turned to find Lindir behind him.

The minstrel was leaning up against a cherry tree that had not yet bloomed. His arms were loose, hanging to either side of him, his pelvis outthrust to keep his balance. His muslin robes were indecently transparent. He was leering. “Beautiful day, Chief Counselor Melpomaen.”

“It will only be a short while before I no longer bear that title.” He faced forward again, away from the moonlight hair that waved in the breeze. “Call me Melpomaen.”

“Melpomaen,” Lindir purred, as though he had no other desire but to say the name. He pushed himself away from the tree, coming round to sashay in front of the dark-haired Elf on the old stone bench. Lindir was smiling. He rarely did anything else, aside from smile or leer. “May I join you?”

Only grudgingly did Melpomaen shift away from the center of the bench, letting Lindir have half of it to himself.

Lindir sat closer than was strictly necessary, his thinly clad thigh pressing warmly against Melpomaen’s. He ducked his pale head, green eyes peering between curtains of pure lace. His was an uncommon beauty.

Melpomaen had heard the stories, though he didn’t believe them. Lindir was washed up on the shores among the sea-foam, son of Ulmo. Lindir was uncovered, fully grown, from the ice atop Taniquetil, a snow child of the mountains. Lindir was formed of an icicle in the waterfall, and thawed with the spring. Lindir was made of wind and music. Lindir was made of light and laughter. Lindir was an angel. Lindir was a god. Lindir was a spirit. Lindir was half-Elf. Lindir was a man cursed with immortality. Lindir was a slave of the Valar. Lindir made the Valar. Lindir was nothing. Lindir was a bard. Lindir was a seducer. Lindir was a slut. Lindir was a fairy. He’d heard them all.

Lindir was just an Elf. He told himself this quite often.

‘He looks at you a lot.’

Glorfindel had been right. More than that. Lindir flirted with everyone. But he talked to Melpomaen, even though it was clear that Melpomaen thought nothing of his flirtatious advances. Lindir pursued him, in some way. He was always hanging about, Melpomaen realized. He’d known it, of course, somewhere down deep.

Glorfindel had made it real.

“You’re quiet today.”

Melpomaen made some noncommittal noise of agreement.

Lindir shifted closer. His hair fell across Melpomaen’s shoulder.

He couldn’t feel the weight of it, so wispy and light were the tresses. Lindir’s lips were at his ear.

Melpomaen’s dark eyes flashed open and he breathed in deep.

“So,” Lindir told him, that lust-toned voice resonating somewhere in Melpomaen’s body that had nothing to do with his ears. “You’ll be having plenty of free time. I like the sound of that.”

“Do you?”

“Hmm. What are you doing tonight?”

Melpomaen felt himself grow light-headed. He was thankful to be sitting down. Lindir had always flirted with him, yes. But never had he been this direct. “What do you--?”

“It’s no secret what I am.”

Melpomaen suddenly found it difficult to swallow. “That’s true.”

“What are you doing tonight?”

“Lindir,” Melpomaen sought an excuse. “I don’t usually . . . It’s been a long time since I . . .”

“That’s why I think I should visit you tonight.” His words were low, slow, and serious. Melpomaen had never heard Lindir sound serious.

Melpomaen turned to face him. He pushed aside the white veil of hair to better see those hiding eyes. “All right.” He stood, before the kiss he could see waiting on Lindir’s lips made contact. “All right.”

= = = = =

At dinner, Glorfindel sat beside Melpomaen, as usual. His mentor ate quickly and dismissed himself before desert.

Glorfindel looked at Elrond, who shrugged.

Lindir was in amongst the artisans that evening, sitting between a glass-worker and a bead-maker, flirting with both of them.

Glorfindel ate his dinner.

= = = = =

Melpomaen changed the sheets on his bed with calm resolve. He lit two lanterns, but no more. He paused at the fireplace, but there was no need for a fire in the summer.

He had nothing else to do, and so he busied himself at his desk, playing Erresean solitaire. It was the hardest game he knew.

He judged the passage of time only by the noise of the eve. The singing was inconstant, rising and falling at turns over the minutes. But once he heard footsteps passing just outside his door, he knew that dinner was over. They passed by in twos and threes for a while, and the orange light of sunset infiltrated the gaps in the heavy curtains at his windows, so that all within was glazed in a heavenly glow.

There was a knock at his door.

Melpomaen rose, pushed in his chair, crossed the wooden floor on bare feet. He opened the door to the sight of Lindir.

Lindir stood, leaning one elbow up against the doorframe. He’d changed his robes before dinner. They were a pale silk, the color of coral. Melpomaen had seen coral once. Lindir’s soft lips were the same hue, and the evening sun that penetrated the House haloed his head like flame.

Melpomaen made an elegant gesture of greeting. “You are most welcome here, Lindir.”

The sprite waltzed in, eyes flaring like green-flamed candles. “So formal,” he teased, swaying nearer. He smiled. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”

Melpomaen returned the smile, though faintly. “I should wonder why.”

“Don’t you know?”

Melpomaen denied any such thing.

“Why, Mel’aen,” the nickname rolled off his tongue, “I’ve been after you for centuries, you sly thing. Always prim and proper, always demure and sedate. I thought it was funny how you ignored me at first. Cute.”

“And now?”

“Now, you don’t pretend. You used to blush. I haven’t seen you blush in a long time, Mel’aen.” Lindir was slowly walking a circle about the room. Some people had quarters, with many rooms. Melpomaen only had one. A corner room. Two walls of windows. A wardrobe, a vanity and basin, a desk, a bed, and a few shelves. “So this is where you live. I like your cards.” Lindir stopped at the desk. Picked up the game where Melpomaen had left off. Moved one of the cards, made a good play. “I haven’t played in years,” Lindir wondered, glancing furtively back over his shoulder. He turned to face his host properly, leaning his butt up against the desk. “So. No more Mister Chief Counselor. Just Mel’aen. Why the change?”

“Erestor will be better for Imladris in the coming tides of war. I will do my best from the shadows.”

Lindir stood up straight, sauntered toward the center of the room where the dark Elf stood. “I wish you luck with it.”

He was standing so close that Melpomaen nearly went cross-eyed. When Lindir leaned in and just a little up for the kiss, Melpomaen pulled away. Not in a jerking motion, and not a lot, just the slightest hitch.

“What’s wrong?” Lindir asked with a smile, his breath ghosting out across Melpomaen’s lips. The smile widened. “I’m a slut; this is just for our pleasure: yours and mine. It’s nothing too serious.”

Melpomaen met light green eyes without flinching, and without smiling. “I take my pleasure very seriously.”

Lindir’s fine icy eyebrows rose in surprise and he laughed. “How quaint.” He tilted his head and affectionately ran his hand through Melpomaen’s dark hair. “So, are you going to kiss me? Or are we going to tiptoe around one another all night?”

Melpomaen shook his dark head, his eyes flashing with a dangerous light. His hands, surprisingly strong, descended on Lindir’s hips, pressing against the silk and into the smooth, hot skin beneath. His hands dipped back and lower, briefly fondling before arms encircled the white Elf, pulling him inexorably forward until their bodies were flush from thigh to chest and Melpomaen nosed into the white hair behind Lindir’s gently pointed ear. Melpomaen breathed in the scent of shampoo and melons. He licked gently up that pale blushing ear, tasting very little, but eliciting a moan from the Elf in his arms. One hand snuck up to trace Lindir’s other ear as Melpomaen’s mouth paid unhurried attention to the first.

Lindir, perhaps merely surprised, did nothing to reciprocate, standing still and breathing fast in the circle of strong arms.

Melpomaen made a hmming sound that vibrated low and growling in Lindir’s ear. He rubbed his lips across that smooth, rounded jaw. He kissed the spot where Lindir would have blushed if he were still capable of such a response. He brushed his pointed nose gently across Lindir’s rounded one. He kissed the corner of a blinking eye and gently cradled Lindir’s head. His other hand rubbed gentle circles into Lindir’s tense back. He kissed the bridge of the minstrel’s nose, a temple, a chin, the corner of his mouth.

Melpomaen kissed Lindir. Gently, he kissed the minstrel, calmly with warm lips and slow candor as one hand shifted round the front to tease a nipple through too-thin silk.

Abruptly, Lindir began to have violent shivers.  
 Kissing along the sloping, pulsing neck, Melpomaen tutted and resumed the firm embrace.

The trembling subsided but did not depart. Lindir still did not move. Melpomaen kissed the collar of his throat.

“I thought I was here to--” Lindir was suddenly sobbing in his arms.

Melpomaen straightened and ceased his attentions, only hugging the minstrel close.

Lindir tried to muffle his sobs in the neck of Melpomaen’s robes. He was not quite successful. He clutched weakly at those robes with pale, clawed hands and he could not hear anything but his own raw, wracked weeping. It sounded like something inside him had broken.

Somewhere in the fog of his mind, he was surprised to find such a well of sorrow within himself, and he poured it all out, unable to stop. He was weakening, all the muscles below his waist going slack and he was dimly aware that Melpomaen was probably holding him up. He fought for words, but could not find them, and would not have been able to voice them anyway, between the waves of his weeping.

Lindir knew he was moving. Melpomaen was moving him. Across the wooden floor, over to the bed. They sat down upon it together and Lindir let Melpomaen arrange him like a rag doll, until they both lay upon the bed, Lindir almost atop the other Elf, Melpomaen’s arms never leaving him.

He cried. He cried until he thought he would pass out from lack of breath, until his tears soaked through Melpomaen’s robes, until his throat was raw and his eyes dry and no more sound would come.

And then he lay silent, gasping for breath, until he was still and calm.

Calm.

Melpomaen was running one hand through that pale, wispy hair. He was whispering unheard words against a sweaty brow.

The words had to fight through the dissipating haze of Lindir’s mind. “. . . all right now. Shh. It’s all right. It’s done now. You’re safe. Just lay still. Just listen to my voice. You’re fine. It’s fine. It’s done now.”

Lindir shifted, leaned up and kissed Melpomaen. Deeply. Pale hands leapt, spider-like, to the many clasps of the robe beneath him, swiftly baring Melpomaen’s secret body. “Oh Mel’aen,” he gasped with more passion than he’d felt in a long time. “I need you inside me.”

Unperturbed, Melpomaen gently caught the spider-hands in a firm grip and sat up, forcing Lindir to pull back.

Dark eyes, so calmly strong, met terrified light green eyes. “Filling the holes in your body is not going to fill the hole in your heart.”

“You’re right.” Light green eyes just huge. “Only you can do that.”

Melpomaen gasped and pulled him in tight, crushing Lindir’s body to him, feeling the strength in the slim figure. “Oh Lindir. Oh Lindir.”

“Please make love to me.”

Melpomaen somehow knew that Lindir did not often speak in those terms. He lay back down, letting Lindir blanket him, letting the spider hands crawl back, letting his pasty body be bared to the lantern light. He too reached up, and helped Lindir shrug out of the pale nothingness of his garments. The smooth white skin shone silver-bronze in the lantern light. Melpomaen kissed and caressed all that he could reach.

Lindir was moaning something awful, some guttural and needful noise that Melpomaen wasn’t expecting.

“This isn’t what I expected,” Lindir pleaded.

Melpomaen laughed and leaned up to kiss those begging lips. He rolled the minstrel over, reversing their positions. Melpomaen grew only slightly frustrated when his robes got tangled and he had to struggle out of them so that he could lay nude against Lindir’s bare flesh. “Not what you expected?” Melpomaen’s breathing had grown labored. He did not remember becoming hard, but his organ was stiff, prodding Lindir’s taut belly. “Maybe what you needed?”

“Maybe,” Lindir whined, reaching between them to fist Melpomaen’s stiff prick.

They rubbed and necked and crooned and ached and thrust and kissed and moaned and cried and begged. It was rapturous and slightly messy.

Melpomaen broke it off by rolling away to grab an unlit lantern off the bedside. He hastily dismantled it, poured a slick puddle into his cupped hand, and turned around to bathe Lindir’s long, slender cock in the tough oil.

“What?” Lindir was half-incoherent, panting with need.

Melpomaen straddled Lindir’s belly, grabbed the base of the coated shaft, and swiftly impaled himself.

“Oh no, I’ve never--” Lindir gasped, involuntarily thrusting into that tight, welcoming heat. “Mel’aen! Ai!” More syllables followed.

Wincing against the burn and stretch of the foreign penetration, Melpomaen bore down and groaned.

“What are you--?”

“Giving you what you need. Not what you want.” Melpomaen executed a few thrusts and then withdrew. He rolled over onto his back, shoved a pillow under his hips, and tugged gently at Lindir’s shoulder. “Come on. You need to move. You need to dictate. Lay between my legs and take me. Hard as you want. Slow or fast. It’s up to you.”

Lindir was shaking again as he rolled up to his knees, his cock jutting out. He crawled between Melpomaen’s spread legs, massaging the thighs, drinking in the sight of him. Those mysterious green eyes were frightened and needful.

“You can do it,” Melpomaen encouraged.

“But,” Lindir looked down at that secret place, beneath the heavy testicles. “Do you want me to?”

“Oh!” Melpomaen let out one bark of laughter. “Heavens yes! I haven’t done this in ages, but I want you, Lindir.” He smiled past the sweat and tension. “My angel-minstrel.”

Lindir bit his lower lip and awkwardly inched forward. He ducked his head and the white veil swung forward. He wanted to hide the tears.

Patiently Melpomaen waited.

Lindir explored the opening with a finger, penetrated the strange grasping muscle with captivated curiosity.    
“Yeah,” Melpomaen encouraged him, flexing around the finger. “Oh yeah.”

Shifting, Lindir withdrew his hand and rubbed the crown of his prick against the tiny opening. He pushed. And twisted.

At the intrusion, Melpomaen cried out, less pained this time.

The rhythm came to them without thought. In and out, ebb and flow, near and far, come and go. In and out, that steady crescendo.

Fascinated, Lindir’s hands crept over Melpomaen’s heaving chest, wider than his own but not as toned as a warrior’s. He played with the nipples, delighted at the way Melpomaen reacted beneath him. Just like playing a fiddle, he thought, and let out a giggle.

Melpomaen smiled up at him, those old eyes so kind.

Lindir strained forward with every thrust, jabbing his mouth at whatever flesh he could reach, a shoulder, a neck, teething a nipple.

Melpomaen’s hands were strong on his body, tense and clutching. Impassioned.

Lindir gasped and squeezed his eyes shut. Tears leaked out.

This time, Melpomaen did not see them.

“This is,” Lindir groaned as Melpomaen clenched around him, “like the first time.” He shoved himself in as far as he could. “Amazing.”

Melpomaen let himself be taken, loved the uncertain roughness of it, the eagerness of his lover.

Lindir let the rhythm take over. He knew, distantly, that it might be painful for the other, it probably was, but oh the twilight was just over the other side! He pounded into the heat, clawed the flesh, gnawed. He was keening, crying, shaking, taking, heaving, pumping.

He came. Vision fogged, pleasure rolled and rippled through in waves and he humped crazily, begging the last of the release to never never stop. “Ai! Mel- mel- mel!”

He held himself up, stiff-armed, for a few passing seconds before he withdrew and collapsed to the side, fighting to get his breath back. “Melpomaen?” He realized his eyes were closed. He opened them.

Melpomaen still lay on his back. The pillow had been pushed to the side, whether purposefully or accidentally Lindir did not know. Melpomaen lay heaving, cock hard and leaking. He was pumping himself in a strong fist, leering gently at Lindir. His nipples were pebbled and teased to a dark purple hue. Sweat beaded on his chest, dripped down his neck. There was an obscene bite mark on one of his shoulders, and Lindir could clearly see where his own fingernails had scraped bright red lines into the flesh of Melpomaen’s hips and that the marks would wrap around to his buttocks.

He was beautiful in his passion and Lindir could not look away even if he had wanted to as Melpomaen spilled thick, pearly seed over his long, scribe’s fingers. He crooned into the night, still slowly pumping until the last of his essence was purged into the night air. He heaved one last gasp and turned those beautiful, dark eyes to Lindir. “Was it good for you?”

Expecting anything but the easy joke, Lindir burst into laughter and Melpomaen followed right after.

= = = = =

Lindir awoke. It was not quite dawn. The first bells would soon ring over the Valley, but until then, the majority of the House remained asleep, and Lindir smiled in the dark silence. He curled in closer to Melpomaen’s comforting heat.

They had cleaned themselves up and burrowed under the covers. A few kind words had been exchanged, but words soon devolved to kisses, and they had slept; Lindir, more restfully than he had in more nights than he could remember. He didn’t know the last time he’d seen a sunrise. He gazed at the part in the curtains, where the first gray morning light peeked through.

It took a while for him to realize Melpomaen was awake. Lindir raised his head to find Melpomaen examining him with worried curiosity.

“What?”

“Lindir. Where do you sleep?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s late for me. Early for you though, I imagine. You’re welcome to stay here, but I thought if you didn’t want to, I could walk you back to your room. Give you a kiss . . .” He let the idea linger, and he smiled at the white Elf.

Lindir sat up and looked about the room. “You’d let me stay here? If I wanted to sleep?”

“Sure.”

“Oh. That’s nice of you.”

Melpomaen shrugged, but didn’t yet sit up. He looked more drowsy than awake. His lips looked a little darker than usual, and there were bruises blooming along his chest.

“I’ll stay here, if you don’t mind.” Lindir hesitated. “I don’t have a room.”

Melpomaen’s brows slowly inched together. “What?”

“I don’t have a room. Quarters. A place of my own.”

“But, why not?”

“It never came up.”

“Where do you keep your clothes?”

Lindir shrugged, refused to meet Melpomaen’s stern gaze. “Wherever. There are a few regulars. They’ve got room in their closets.”

“Regulars? Well, where do you keep your things?”

“My instruments are in the rehearsal room.” He met the angry eyes. “I don’t have anything else.”

Melpomaen sat up sharply. He was angry. Not at Lindir. “That’s crazy. Where do you call home?” he demanded.

Lindir was not sad, only matter-of-fact when he admitted, “I don’t have a home.”

Melpomaen grabbed him close, his embrace stifling.

“Muh uh oo doung? Mel’ahhn? Muh wung?”

“That’s not fair,” Melpomaen whispered into the white hair. “I’ll make sure you get a room.”

Extricating himself enough to speak, Lindir confessed, “That’s not why I told you.”

Melpomaen blinked, realizing for the first time that this had been a secret. He blinked again.

Lindir shook his head and tried to pull away.

Melpomaen wouldn’t let him. “Of course,” he whispered, realizing. “Of course.”

“What?”

“Look around.”

“What?”

“Look around,” Melpomaen instructed. “This room. This can be your home. Or, if you like,” he said with a smile, “I can be your home.”

Lindir felt something mad and fluttering in the region of his heart. He swung his arms around Melpomaen’s neck. “Melpomaen. You’re strong in ways I didn’t know existed.”

There was a sound like laughter low in his throat and Melpomaen rocked Lindir back and forth. “Strong. Ah, well.” He kissed the moonlight crown of hair. “So say the foolish and lovelorn. And I love you for it.”

“You love me?” A whisper.

“Well, it’s early yet, so I’ll know better later. But I feel something for you that I haven’t dreamed of, and I think it’s love.”

“How can you tell?”

“It’s like the poets say,” Melpomaen explained.

“All the pain of death and all the strife  
All the dark of below and the light of above  
All the joy of childhood and all the loss of life  
All of this is all of love.”

= = = = =

The End


End file.
